Tempered by Fire: Retribution
by Sirius7
Summary: Second in the Tempered by Fire Series. Charlie issued a challenge; now someone will take him up on it. Ch. 7 up.
1. Chapter 1

Retribution, Part I 

Author: Sirius

Disclaimer: Anyone you recognize from the _West Wing_ doesn't belong to me, but the plot is mine.

Rating: PG-13, for now.  There are harsh words, but nothing that would bump up the rating too much, yet.

Author's Note: This is the second story in the "Tempered by Fire" Series, and follows _Desolation_.  As always, feedback is welcome.  Also, there was a typo at the beginning of the second chapter of _Desolation_ that mentioned "October" air.  It has been corrected. That story took place in November, after the election. 

Author's Note 2: UNSUB = Unidentified Subject

Day 15 – Saturday, November 30, 2002

_It may be cold, but at least the sun's out_.  The air was crisp and the remains of the season's first snowfall crunched under foot.  The hand slipping into hers drew her attention back to the scene at hand… and the man standing at her side.  _He looks tired.  Charlie, what have you been doing to yourself?  Never mind, I know what you've been doing, because I've been helping you._

She looked around with eyes that noticed a great deal more than they used to.  Eight visible agents at their assigned posts… she knew that there were ten others blending so well into the shadows as to be invisible.  She knew where they were; she knew what they were supposed to be doing, and she knew that if all hell broke loose, they would give their lives. _This is going to get hairy, and we all know it… but it damn well better not happen today.  We have other things to do today._  

She slid her arm around Charlie's waist, her grip around him tightening, as they grew ever closer to the gravesite.  _For all that it's cold,_ Zoey thought, _it's a beautiful day for Deena._  There had been a larger memorial service earlier, so that her friends from school could say goodbye, but this… this smaller gathering at the cemetery was only for family – and eighteen dedicated employees of the Treasury Department.  

The service started a few moments later, and was a quiet event.  Most of the mourners had said what they wished to say at the public service, and used this gathering as a chance for silent contemplation on a life cut far too short.  Charlie was lost in his own thoughts, and she could see a look in his eyes that hadn't been there since Rosslyn.  The service ended quickly – with a few short prayers – and she drew him to her, ignoring the people around them.  They were family, after all.  

"Charlie," she whispered to him.  "This is not your fault.  This has never been your fault.  You could not hope to convince anyone that this was your fault, and I won't allow you to convince _yourself_ of it, either.  Do you hear me?"  Charlie didn't answer.  "_Do you hear me_?"  His eyes focused on her again… and he nodded.  

_This is so hard.  He's fighting, and I'm fighting… and it's worth it, every minute.  But sometimes… he gets so tired – of pushing against the hate, of watching people he loves be placed in the ground, of the constant risk.  Lean on me, Charlie.  I won't break._  Almost as if he'd heard her, he drew her even closer, and the kiss they shared was equal parts love and grief.  His coat was unbuttoned and she rested her head on his chest, only one layer of cloth between them.  She could hear the strong heart beating in his chest – such a noble, calm heart, that had already been torn apart enough for an entire lifetime.  

Those watching were hesitant to interrupt them, but Abbey finally took a step forward, wrapping her arms around both of her children and leading them to the motorcade.  Neither of them really felt it, but both were shivering in the cold.  Ushering the two into the Presidential limo, she watched them holding each other together as the motorcade made its way back to the Residence.  The Senior Staff, arriving in a second limo, looked at the two couples heading into the Residence, and silently agreed that they could afford to take this weekend off.  This time belonged to the First Family.

*******

Ron sighed and dropped his head to rest in his hands.  _Two weeks and we're no closer to the bastard._  Charlie's file was scattered in front of him – letters and pictures interspersed with his notes in an order that made sense only to him.  _What am I missing?_  He looked at the most recent UNSUB profile; Ekhart and Jensen had turned it in this morning, neither of them looking as though they'd slept.  

He took a deep breath, then jumped a bit as Cassandra barged into his office and slammed the door behind her.  "Ron, I hate to sound disrespectful here, but why haven't we found anything yet?"

"The crime scene was clean, Cass; you know that.  There was nothing to find there.  We haven't located the weapon, and the faces have been cut out of the pictures, all except for Deena's.  If there are any identifying marks, I sure as hell haven't seen them.  We still have a missing coroner, and no one seems to have _seen_ anything, wherever it was that they actually killed the kids.  On top of everything else, they're too quiet.  Charlie issued a challenge, and I'd bet that they're taking him up on it.  I'm not sure how to combat whatever they're brewing up, but I will.  I have to, because the alternative is unthinkable."

Cassie took a step back at the mixed anger, vehemence, and exhaustion in his voice.  "I'm sorry, Ron.  I know all of this, but damn it, she was my _student_.  You know I get close to my kids.  They don't ask for the shit that this world throws them; they just have to deal, and all of them have to struggle so hard.  Deena never knew her father, had lost her mother, and only risked her heart to her friends because Charlie was still there to show her that the risk was ok.  They always had each other, and now, that family is missing a member _again.  _I want this bastard, and I want him bad, Ron.  Charlie and Deena had already lost too much.  Now, it's just Charlie.  How much more can he take?"

"As much as he has to," Ron answered, "as long as he has Zoey."

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Retribution, Part II 

Author: Sirius

Disclaimer: Rating and disclaimer info in part one.

Chapter Summary: Which plan were we using again… and how many are there, anyway?  As always, reviews are welcome.

"MacAvoy!  Genesee!  Get your asses in here!"

The captain's voice bellowing through the bullpen made several of his officers jump.  He was obviously not in a happy mood.  The two detectives made their way to the captain's office.  

"Sit!"

Glancing at each other, the partners did as Captain DiMenna demanded.  

"Tell me that you've found something," he said.  "I'd settle for fingerprints on a note, a hazy outline seen by a neighbor in the fog.  Just give me something!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Genesee said.  "We don't have anything.  The scene was wiped clean as far as prints go, and while there is a large amount of DNA evidence, we don't have any suspects to match it against.  If there are any witnesses, they aren't talking."

"She was my partner's kid, Genesee.  I want her killer found.  So does the President… so does the First Lady, and to be rather blunt, I'm not sure who frightens me more.  _Find him_, gentlemen.  I want the bastard who killed Deena Young – so does the Secret Service.  MacAvoy."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Keep in touch with the FBI and Service profilers.  If we screw this up, they won't hesitate to step in.  Deena and Charlie were practically part of the First Family already, and they've closed ranks since Deena's murder.  _All _of them are pissed, from the President down to the gardeners and the IT staff.  On top of everything else, they _do_ have access to tools that we as a department can't afford.  Use them.  Solve this.  That goes for both of you.  Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

MacAvoy headed back to his desk to begin the series of phone calls that would connect him to the profilers, sighing as he once again wished he hadn't taken _that_ night off.  This would have so much easier if he'd been part of the actual crime-scene crew.  He'd been out of town, and Genesee – who had also taken the night off – had been paged to come in and handle it.  And then Mac had asked to switch to day shift when it became clear that this was a hate crime… he hated working those.  The shift change didn't last long, though.  Day shift didn't suit him.

"Hey, buddy," his partner's voice called out from behind him, "what's going through your mind?"

"I was just thinking, Bobby," he said, "that I was glad to be off that afternoon swing shift and back on my regular beat." 

"You and me both, pal.  I'm glad you decided that the day shift didn't really work for you."

"Guess I'm always gonna be a goof-off night owl at heart, huh, partner?"

"You bet.  Now, where were we on this case?  We'd better find something before we have the Secret Service breathing down our necks."

"Too late for that, Bobby.  They've been glaring for the past two weeks.  I had the misfortune to have a little chat with the Security Chief – one Ron Butterfield – a couple days ago, when you were off.  The man is odd."

"Odd how, Mac?"

MacAvoy paused for a second, mind searching for right phrase to describe President Bartlet's AIC.  "His gaze was… penetrating.  Like he knew everything I'd ever done wrong in my life and had a direct line to God, who had just decided to grant him judge, jury and executioner rights.  If he weren't on our side…  Well, let's just say this is one man I'd never want to meet if I didn't have my sidearm."

"I've never met him, Mac, but from what I hear about the Service, that's not too surprising.  Ready to get to work?"

"Absolutely, Bobby.  The sooner we find the guy that did this, the sooner I get Butterfield's eyes _off_ the back of my neck."

"Always willing to help my partner, Mac."  _Hope you aren't counting on solving this anytime soon, buddy._  If Mac saw the smile on his partner's face, he simply thought it was an attempt to lighten the mood.

Day 17

Charlie knocked on the door of the Oval Office and then opened it, knowing that the President was by himself and expecting this visitor.  "Admiral Fitzwallace to see you, sir."

"Send him in, Charlie."

Fitz entered the room, and Charlie closed the door behind the older man, leaving the two to their discussion.  

"What's the word, Percy?"

"Officially, the investigation into Shareef's death is still open, but the Qumari are letting it die off a bit.  They're tired of not finding anything convincing."

"You could have told me that over the phone, Fitz.  You could have told _Leo_ that over the phone.  Spill."

"The plan's in motion, sir.  I finished coordinating with Ron this morning.  If he leaves the Residence now, Service can't officially do anything, although Ron has a rotation up for _off-duty_ agents to keep an eye on him.  Corporal Simons will be standing in for Charlie at his apartment."

"He looks enough like Charlie to make this work?"

"From a distance, Mr. President.  If the UNSUB looks close enough, he'll be able to tell that Simons isn't Charlie… but from a distance, it should work.  Simons mentioned in passing that it feels odd to be in `civvies' while he's working, but since he gets to keep the suits, he won't mind too much."

"I'm so glad to know that he _won't mind_ following an order."  The President dismissed the passing sarcasm by way of a slight smile.  

"Not a word to Charlie, Fitz.  He wouldn't approve of anyone risking his life to get this sick SOB… even if he seems more than willing to paint a target on his _own_ back."

"Understood, sir."

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Retribution, Part III 

Author: Sirius

Disclaimer: See Part I

Author's Note: After a kind review, I realized that the formatting was a little unclear.  Thoughts and dream sequences, etc., are in .

Chapter Summary:  A dream and a clue… if they can find it.

11pm, same night

Charlie sank onto the bed in what was informally considered _his_ room in the Residence, looking for something to do to take his mind off the constant edginess he felt now.  _Why isn't he trying anything?  I need to draw him out; as long as I'm _here_ he'll stay quiet… _they'll _stay quiet.  _Thoughts going around in circles, he pulled himself off the bed and made his way to the desk to grab the notebook resting there.  Opening it, he looked over the information that he had put together from the letters.  

Ron hadn't been able to show him the profile – not because the AIC was protecting him, but rather because there were some rules that couldn't be broken… at least, not right now.  The entire realm of what was and was not permissible to show family members _during_ an on-going investigation was hazy, at best, and Ron didn't want to take any chances on doing _anything_ that might set this guy loose on a technicality.

Charlie had talked informally with Deena's friends at the public service, and had asked if she'd said anything to them about not coming to the party.  When he'd gone back to the Residence that day, he'd written down everything he could remember.  Those statements lay on the page in front of him, words almost taunting him with the knowledge that there was a clue there, _if he could just see it._

_Dara_: Deena called from Andy's cell phone, said that Andy wasn't feeling well, that she was going to drop him off, drive home, and bring the car back to him the next day.  

_Wait a minute.  _He paused as he realized something that should have occurred to him before.  _Deena was driving?  When they were found, she was in the passenger seat.  What made her stop the car?_

_Dara:_  Deena said they were stopped at a light when she was calling.  She hung up when the light turned green.

Deena knows to keep the car doors locked when she's driving anywhere late.  No bullets fired at the car, the gas tank was still half full…  How did this happen?  What got her out of the car?  A small thought started to gnaw in the back of his brain.  It's not possible he thought, brushing it aside and changing into a pair of sweatpants before sliding into bed… in the hopes of getting some sleep tonight. 

*****

He was walking with Zoey, her smile lighting up the day around him.  The sun and smell of roses told him that it was spring, and they were in the Rose Garden.  He lifted her hand to his mouth, smiling at the way the sunlight shone off the ring he had given her.

In a room not too far down the hallway, Zoey smiled in her sleep.

He sat with his father the night before the wedding, Jed Bartlet doing his best to get Charlie to sleep without taking him out to get soused.  A quiet talk, a frank – and nerve-wracking, for Charlie – discussion of the women in their lives.  Jed could see the love shining in his son's eyes – Charlie would never be less than that to him, now.  

_The next day – the wedding.  Sun shone bright in the Rose Garden.  The Press, he ignored as a necessary evil.  The public had to have its `Great American Romance,' right?  Its real-life fairy-tale?  Josh stood at his side, and he knew that Donna would be helping Zoey.  He hoped someone had made her have some breakfast.  He saw her standing at the end of aisle… and she took his breath away._

_Then, the scene changed._

Was it night or day?  How could he tell when he was stuck in the dark and there were no windows?

Down the hall, the First Daughter tossed and turned in her sleep, terror filling the tiny sounds that came from her as she lay caught in the dream.  Gina – hearing the noise – knocked softly, and then entered without disturbing her charge.  She watched, worried, as her young friend struggled against demons the agent couldn't see.  Gina debated the merits of waking Zoey, but decided against it and stood a silent watch.  If it looked like she was going too deep into the dream… then, Gina would wake her.  Until then, she needed all the sleep she could get.  

Where's Zoey?  He looked around and couldn't see her, couldn't see anything.  Something, somewhere, opened a little, allowing into the room a tiny crack of light.  He still couldn't make out what was happening – nothing showed within the light save a small patch of cement – but at least it was a break in the darkness.  It might allow him to find his place in… wherever this was.  

_He slid a hand into the light and saw it gleam red.  His blood? Hers? Someone else's? He struggled for breath, but knew that he had to get out of here.  _

_Where was the door to this room?  The little light was no guide, providing the barest of reference points for his position.  He felt his way around until he reached a corner, and turning, followed the length of the wall.  When he came to the next corner, he followed that wall.  It was in the middle of the third that his hands found a crack in the wall – a door?_

_He made a mental note of the door's location in terms of the light, and continued to explore the room.  He paused as he felt something cold and yielding under his hands, and remembered whose blood stained his hands.  It belonged to them both… both._

The fingers of his left hand traced over raised rope burns on his right wrist, knowing that his other wrist bore matching marks.  He knew if he looked that there would be bruises on his ribs, and that some would be broken, that he was probably bleeding internally, losing his life drop by drop in a way that no one could see.  But the blood on his hand… his was from cuts that he had instinctively tried to see to.  Hers… hers was from holding her to him, when they had finally let him go.  Trying to stem the flow of blood, listening to the breath rattle in her lungs as their captors laughed.

A tiny gleam of light off something familiar… and a recognition as his wife died in his arms…

Zoey screamed, sitting up in her bed, shaking and pale; it was only Gina's assurance that it was just a nightmare that kept other agents out of the room, and she wasn't prepared for her charge to jump out of her bed and _run_ down the hall the short distance to Charlie's room.  _I should have been expecting that_ she thought. 

The agent outside Charlie's door made no move to stop the First Daughter as she burst into Charlie's room, absent-mindedly catching the door before it could hit the wall.  Gina followed only two steps behind, but unlike Zoey, stopped at the door.  Her eyes flashed in rage as she looked on Charlie, and, tossing a glance at William, she could see the other agent felt the same.  

The young man was tossing and turning in his bed, muscles tensed with either rage or readiness to fight a perceived threat.  His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles were white, and his body – bare to the waist – was covered in sweat.  Unknowing, he cried in his sleep, the tears soaking the pillow as he struggled against an unseen foe.

Gina, for all that Zoey and Charlie were friends as well as protectees, didn't know what to do now, and she realized that she didn't need to do anything.  Zoey – hearing the whispers that Charlie thought were screams – climbed into the bed and curled herself around him.

"I'm here.  I'm here."  

Charlie's eyes snapped open, and his gaze locked with hers.  Gina, having not yet moved, could see the look in his eyes – a man sentenced to a lifetime of hell had just been granted a reprieve.  He whispered Zoey's name and held her tightly to him as the adrenaline rush drained away and his body shook.

Gina closed the door and gave the young couple the privacy they needed to recover from what had just happened.  She shared a look with William and said, "No one disturbs them.  I'll talk with Ron and see if Eagle will let his aide sleep in a bit."  William nodded in agreement as Gina took up a post on the other side of the doorway, and made a mental note to get in touch with Butterfield as soon as he came in.  

In the room, the two held each other, unable to sleep or speak through the long night ahead, Zoey haunted by the image of the tormented Charlie in the room, and Charlie tortured by the memory of holding a dying Zoey.  Trying to forget the dream, he pushed to the back of his mind the thought that there was an important detail that he needed to remember.__

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

Retribution, Part IV 

Author: Sirius

Disclaimer: See Part I

Author's Note:  Sorry that I've taken so long to update.  I have three stories (and real life) meandering through my brain all at one time.  This chapter is a little happier than previous ones, and contains much fluff.  I'm giving the characters a (very) temporary rest from all the stress.  It picks up where Part III left off, and I should be able to get Part V finished this weekend as well.  Reviews are always welcome.

Tuesday – Day 18 – 8 a.m.

Bartlet walked into the Oval barely noticed Ron's whispered conversation over the Service communications system; that, after all, was routine.  Charlie's empty desk in the outer office, however, was cause for concern, and he turned on his heel with every intention of personally checking on his aide.  

Walking into the Residence and down the appropriate hallway, he paused when he noticed Charlie's _and_ Zoey's main agents outside his aide's bedroom door.  For a moment, the conflicting feelings within him each battled for dominance, and in the end, the loser was the overprotective father portion that was demanding Charlie's reassignment to the Yukon.  He settled for giving Gina a rather quizzical look.

"Zoey had a nightmare, sir.  She then came down the hall to check on Charlie, who also seemed to be having a nightmare."  The look he gave her then demanded just a _little _more explanation.  Seeing this, she continued.  "Nothing happened, sir.  They've just been sleeping.  I'd spoken to Butterfield about letting them sleep in, but I gather he hasn't had the chance to speak with you yet, sir."

"No, he hasn't, Gina," Bartlet responded, "but it's a good idea.  Let him wake up when he wakes up, and tell him to grab some breakfast or something before he comes to work."

"Aye, sir."

He was about to turn and head back to the Oval when he felt the urge to simply make certain that they were all right.  He moved to the door and opened it just a little, quietly enough not to wake the two, and what he saw stole his breath and brought tears to his eyes.  The heating system was on in the Residence, and the breeze from the vents stirred Zoey's hair so that it danced and whispered across Charlie's bare chest – fire on chocolate.  Zoey's head was tucked under Charlie's chin, and even in sleep he held her so close that – were it not for the stirring contrast in skin tones – it would be impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.  

They fit.  They belonged together.  He'd known it before, but the knowledge had never really hit him until now.  This was how they were supposed to be, his kids.  He smiled, closed the door softly, and headed back to his office after reminding the Detail – once again – that Charlie and Zoey were not to be disturbed.

Leo knocked quietly on the connecting door between his office and the Oval and entered as soon as he heard his friend's acknowledgement.  He hadn't seen Charlie this morning, and careful questioning of Debbie proved that he hadn't come to work yet.  "Charlie ok?" 

"He's sleeping in this morning, Leo.  Apparently, he had a nightmare last night.  At any rate, there was a collective request from the agents that he be allowed a little extra time before showing up for work today."  

A concerned frown crossed Leo's face.  "Nightmare?  Maybe I should go check…"

"Leave him be, Leo.  Zoey's with him; he'll be alright."

Leo appeared about to say something, but then he shook his head and started to walk away.

"Leo, talk to me."

"About what, Mr. President?" Maybe if he pleaded ignorance, Jed would ignore the fact that Leo had wanted to say something.  

"What were you going to say, Leo?"  So much for that thought.

"Sir, I'm simply not used to you being so… at ease… with the thought of Zoey in the same room as a man."

"If it were anyone else, Leo… but it's Charlie.  I didn't truly realize what they were to each other until this morning.  I knew, but it hadn't sunk in until now."

"Sir?"

"They're Abbey and me, Leo.  Not literally, you understand, and I haven't actually talked to Charlie about this, but… I know what I saw this morning.  I know that she is first in his thoughts when he wakes up, and last when he falls asleep.  I know that his strengths are her weaknesses, and his weaknesses are her strengths.  I know that she is concerned first with his safety, while he looks first for her welfare.  And I know that if anything were to happen to Zoey, life would lose its color for him, words would have no laughter, song would know no joy… and every breath would be torture.  I know… because that's me and Abbey.  That's me and Abbey, and even if they looked for the rest of their lives, neither one would be able to find someone else to make them feel this way.  I understand that, Leo, and damned if I'm going to get in their way."

Leo, realizing that he had effectively been holding his breath while Jed spoke, drew air into his lungs once again.  He had never heard Jed Bartlet say anything in quite so lyrical a manner and it moved him as much as the sight of Zoey and Charlie had moved Bartlet earlier that morning.  He nodded and moved back to his office, rendered speechless by the same realization that had already made itself known to the President.  Charlie and Zoey could make this work… if no one killed them first, that is.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

Retribution, Part V 

Author: Sirius

Disclaimer: For disclaimer and ratings, see Part I.

Author's Note: Sorry it's taken so long to update.  I've had three different stories – and real life – going through my head simultaneously, and I took a minor break to concentrate on the funny ("Something Evil This Way Comes") rather than the serious.  In any case, here is the next installment.  Enjoy, and reviews are always welcome.

Chapter Summary:  The notebook, a large hint as to the villain, and a – slightly – non-grouchy Toby.

Ron stood his designated shift over his protectee.  As Agent in Charge, he could have assigned the shift to someone else and simply kept his eye on the overall security arrangements, but that had never been his style.  Butterfield was a hands-on individual and liked it.  What's more, he liked Bartlet – as a President and as a possible friend.  He was a good man, and Ron knew it – damned persuasive, too.  He was still on alert – that was a nearly constant state with him, and probably part of the reason he'd never married – but part of his mind was still occupied with the current threat to Phoenix and Globetrotter.  _That name doesn't really fit her now,_ he thought, _since she's back from Paris and ditched the…_  He stopped himself before he could think anything that would be highly unprofessional.  

"Ron," Bartlet called.  When the agent's gaze met his, the President asked, "Are the kids up, yet?"

Ron just shook his head, his face the perfect stoic mask, even though his eyes were burning with exhaustion.  _Gotta stop working the eighteen-hour days.  Between standing watch and working on Deanna's case… I'm getting too old for this.  Damn, I never thought I'd hear myself say that… think that_.  He mentally shook his head, but his outward appearance didn't change.  

Elsewhere – same time

He imagined the growing tension as he made them wait, watching the clock tick down the seconds as he planned.  It should be nearly unbearable by now.  _Such fire,_ he thought, _such passion, and she saved it for **him**.  Her father loves him like a son, taking him into his own house when the boy is threatened, but it doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter that every second that goes by increases their feeling that I should have done something by now, doesn't matter that Bartlet welcoming that worthless boy as a son is an affront to every white man in the country, doesn't matter that Bartlet and his spitfire daughter are traitors to their own race.  What matters is that they be punished.  That boy stepped out of his place… just like his bitch of a mother. His family has been an annoyance to me more than long enough._  "Richard?"

"Yes, sir."

"The word is Go."

"Yes, sir."

She has been defiled by his touch, and must be purified.

West Wing – same time, different office

"Toby?  Debbie called.  She said the President wanted the meeting rescheduled for later this afternoon, but Toby… you didn't have a meeting with him on your schedule for this morning."  Her probing look asked for details, but she wouldn't push.

"It's nothing, Ginger, just something that came up at poker night – a little thing.  What time this afternoon?  And why did Debbie call?  Charlie usually does that."

"Two o'clock.  I asked about Charlie and she said he was… sleeping in this morning or something."  The show of concern on Toby's part was rare… he usually kept such things to himself.  It was almost sweet.  _Wait,_ she thought.  _Did I just think the word `sweet' in connection with Toby?  That's it.  It's official.  This job has driven me insane._

"Ginger?"

"Yes, Toby?"

"Why are you still standing in the doorway?"

She paused for a second, and thought that she came up with something convincing.  "You looked like you were about to say something else, so I thought I'd stick around.  It's kind of pointless to go to my desk if I'm just going to come straight back here."

"That might be believable if your desk was more than five feet from my door."  Toby's gaze wasn't on the door, but Ginger was sure he could see her reflection in the window that divided his office from Sam's; she could see his.  She noticed the tiny smirk on his face, the indicator that he wasn't _completely _his usual grumpy self.  

_He's teasing me!  He's teasing me?  Nah, can't be._  Ginger shook her head in puzzlement and walked back to her desk, let her head thunk on its surface… just once… and then noted the appointment on Toby's schedule.  _I wonder if there's a full moon tonight._

Toby, perfectly aware of how much he had confused his assistant, released a soft chuckle… and then looked around for his ever-present pink ball.  _Sam probably stole it again.  I'm going to have to start stockpiling the damn things._

Residence – same time

Zoey woke first and spent several seconds propped up on one elbow, just looking at Charlie.  In sleep, most of the lines were gone from his face.  That spot on his forehead was clear and smooth, the one that crinkled up slightly when he was worried about something.  He was sprawled on his half of the bed – _I like the sound of that _– but Zoey had noticed throughout the night that some part of him was always touching her.  It didn't seem to matter whether it was a hand, a foot, or the back of an arm.  It was no different now; his hand rested lightly on her hip, and even though Zoey felt like she had to move, she wasn't going to disturb him just yet.  The one time she'd gotten out of bed last night – nature waits for no one – she had returned to find him tossing restlessly in the bed.  His jaw had been clenched and his body was tense, poised for a fight, even though he'd been calm when she'd left just a few minutes before.  Once Zoey had slipped back into bed and smoothed away the worry lines, the tension had eased and Charlie had wrapped himself around her.  She hadn't left the bed after that, and wasn't going to now… not just yet.

Seeing the small notebook laying on the nightstand on Charlie's side of the bed, and wanting to do something while she kept an eye on him, Zoey leaned over him just enough to reach it.  Her hair brushed across his chest, and his muscles rippled slightly in sleep.  _He's ticklish_, she thought, grinning.  He'd inadvertently discovered that she was – when they'd first started going out – but her Detail's reaction to her surprised shriek had discouraged other… explorations… of possible weak spots for a tickle fight.  _Besides_, she thought, _everything was too new then… and I didn't want Dad to do anything drastic – not that I ever really thought he'd send him to the Yukon, because that would negate the entire purpose of having an aide.  Still, he would have gotten over-protective and grouchy, and we wouldn't have had **any** time to ourselves.  We had little enough as it was._  She smiled, having made the recent effort to understand his job – and its demands on his time – better than she had before.  He loved what he was doing, and she loved the confidence this job had given him… the _family_ this job had given him.  This job brought him to her… and she would love it for that alone.  She could stand the long hours for that alone.

Propping herself up against the headboard – and making sure that Charlie could still touch her – she opened the notebook and began to read.  After a minute, she reached for the pen on Charlie's nightstand and jotted down a few notes in the margin.  She would have to mention them to Charlie when he woke up.  

Oval Office – one hour later

Charlie knocked once, entering at the President's acknowledgment.  The aide, looking slightly the worse for wear, could barely manage to speak his customary, "Good morning, Mr. President."  He headed immediately for Ron, and handed him the small red notebook, eyes blazing with so deep a rage that the seasoned agent almost took a step back.

Charlie closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then spoke.  "Ron, because the threats have been in part coming to me here, Secret Service could call jurisdiction on Deanna's murder, right?"

Butterfield nodded.  "We could make a case for it, yes."

"Do it, please."

"Charlie?"

"We put it all in the book – my notes, talks I've had with her friends.  Zoey helped me figure it out this morning…" His voice trailed off for a moment.

"Charlie?"

"It was a cop, Ron.  A _cop_ killed my sister."

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

Retribution, Part VI 

Author: Sirius

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: See Part I

Author's Note: This part has a few harsh words.  Also, for those of you who've been keeping up with all my fics, this is not in the same AU as the crossover "Something Evil…" and Charlie's family tree is not the same in this fic as it is in that one.  Enjoy.

Chapter Summary: The words of an old family friend.

Noon, same day

Somewhere on the outskirts of D.C., an old man stood, looking out his living room window.  One hand held a cup of coffee – Seal-strong.  That was a vice he happily kept, though he'd long since given up the smoking habit now referred to as "a bit of youthful stupidity."  

The other hand held a cordless phone, poised as if for use… and then, held loosely at his side, the usually decisive man for once unsure of himself.  It had never been his nature to sit back when friends needed his help, and he didn't want to start now… but he needed to know more before planning his next moves.

He turned his back to the window and switched on the TV, catching the tail-end of a local press conference.  He couldn't see enough to make out the location, but the man currently speaking was impossible to mistake for anyone other than Police Commissioner Erik Gates.  

"Commissioner, why has the Secret Service taken over Deanna Young's case, and why now?"  The old man couldn't identify the reporter by voice alone, so he contented himself with listening to Gates' answer, attention focused on the television screen before him.  _What are you thinking, Ron?_

"I'm not in a position to comment on the precise cause for the change of heart on the part of Secret Service leadership, and, as this is an on-going investigation, all further inquiries will have to be directed to Service public relations personnel.  I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you at the moment."

The man watching didn't notice the Commissioner step off-screen to the cacophony of the reporters' cries for more information.  He didn't notice the shot switch back to focus on the face of the local news anchorman back at the studio, and he didn't hear any commentary that said anchor might have offered on the surprising turn of events.  The previously indecisive fingers were busy dialing a phone number that the old man would never forget.  "Ron, what the hell is going on?  And don't mention anything about national security or Presidential safety.  Even retired, I've got the clearance, and I want some answers _now_, Lieutenant."

He could almost _hear_ Ron start to smile, a smile that would shortly be followed by the standard reminder that he wasn't a Lieutenant anymore, and he cut in before Ron had a chance to say it.  "Tell me what's happening, Ron.  You don't have to consider it an order… just a favor to an old friend.  I saw Charlie's comments to the White House Press Corps a couple of weeks back.  I know that the situation's been quiet.  What I _don't_ know is what finally prompted you to tell the DCPD to go screw themselves where Deena's case was concerned, because they obviously had their heads stuck up their collective six.  Since I don't know, I would appreciate being filled in."

He knew Ron's stoic façade had broken a bit when he heard the agent chuckle softly.  "You haven't changed a bit, Admiral," he said, still chuckling.  Benjamin Kaersi simply grunted in response.

"And you've still got some of that young smart-ass I remember, Butterfield.  Don't push.  Now, tell me what's going on – with the case _and_ with Charlie.  Most of us who live outside that impressive building at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue don't see him much anymore."

"He's been… stressed," Butterfield replied, "and understandably so, but he's managing.  I'm not sure he'd do quite so well if not for…"

"Zoey Bartlet."

"Yes, sir."  There was a significant pause here, and Ben could tell that Ron wanted to say something else, but he let it slide.  

"Charlie would have survived, Ron."  The Admiral's voice broke the silence after a moment.  "I'm just not sure how much _living_ he would have done." He couldn't see Butterfield's nod, but knew that his former student was in agreement.  "Those two are in it for the long haul, aren't they, Ron?"

"Yes, sir, I believe they are."

"And the case?"

"The case just took an uglier turn than expected, Admiral, but you know better than most that I can't give you details.  I'll let you know more once we've managed to catch the sorry bastard behind this mess, though."

Kaersi grunted, not exactly happy with the situation, but willing to accept it to a certain extent.  He was familiar with regs, and even retired, the habit of following them was too ingrained to break now.  Regulations were regulations, and in this case, there was valid reason for them – up to a point.

"I'll give you two weeks," Kaersi said.  "Two weeks, and then you tell me everything, whether you've caught him or not.  RHIP, Lieutenant."

Ron sighed in mock defeat.  "That would be more impressive if I still held the rank, Kaersi."  The next sound was one which the old Admiral knew to be a signal of utter exhaustion.

"I know that Charlie's your student, sir, but… why is that, exactly?"

"You must be tired, Ron.  You're usually not this… indirect. You could have asked the same question in five words and without the hesitation."

"If you want direct… answer the damn question… sir."

"I'll keep the details to myself – most of them are still classified in any case – but I can give you the summary.  Thirty-three years ago, during the Vietnam War under circumstances that I cannot reveal, a young Ensign by the name of Michael Bennett saved my life at the cost of his own.  His was unmarried, and was survived by his father, Charles, and one younger sister.  Her name was Marissa, and she later married a man named Derek Young.  Put Charlie in a set of Navy dress whites and the resemblance would be unmistakable.  Michael saved my six, Ron.  How could I not help his nephew when you brought him to me?"

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

Retribution, Part VII 

Author: Sirius

Rating: For rating and disclaimers, see Part I.

Author's Note:  I finally managed to corral the muses and finish this section, a series of transition points in the story.  Also, part of the reason this took so long was that I hangs head in shame temporarily forgot that Ainsley and Sam were still working in the White House in this AU, since I have other stories in the works where they aren't – my bad.  Sorry for the wait, but hope you enjoy.

A/N 2: I will hopefully be creating a website of my own shortly, just to make it easier for people to find my stuff.

Part VII:

The office door shut with a deceptively quiet click, and Keith Masters knew instantly that he was going to be on the receiving end of something; he just didn't know whether it would be good, bad, ugly or some perverse mix of the three.  _This is going to be about as much fun as a dressing down from my D.I., one way or another._

"Officer Masters, grab a seat and relax a bit."

"Thank you, sir, but I would prefer to stand."

"You're not in trouble, Masters; I just have a few questions."

"Donna!"

There was no response, and Josh's forehead suddenly developed two new furrows.

"DONNA!"

"I heard you the first time, Josh.  Unfortunately, as I was carrying a rather heavy stack of files and didn't particularly want to drop them on my foot, it took me more than a few seconds to get to you."

"Oh… sorry."

Did Josh just apologize to me?  OK, something's not quite right here.

"Josh?  What's wrong?  What did you need?"

"I just…I need to talk to Leo."  He stood and grabbed the file that he'd been reading, striding quickly toward the door.  "Walk with me."

Charlie, under Presidential orders to take the entire day off, had headed back to his room to shower, shave and otherwise make himself presentable.  Charlie couldn't fault the President for his decision – obviously, his mind wasn't on his work right now and Bartlet knew it.  Unfortunately, having the day off meant that he didn't have anything to concentrate on that might distract him from Deena.  His notebook of information had been handed over to Ron, with the understanding that he would get the original back – eventually – so right now he couldn't really work on it even if he wanted to.

Meanwhile, Charlie knew that if Ron could see his endless pacing, the AIC might think of another way to distract the young aide; Charlie couldn't decide whether to be grateful or depressed that the two methods topping the list were 'knock him out' and 'sit on him.'  Of course, considering that this was simply what Charlie _thought _Ron would do, and not necessarily his actual course of action, well…

_OK, that's it.  I can't stay in my room or I'll drive myself crazy; as close as I am to that now, it wouldn't even be much of a drive._  Changing into workout clothes, Charlie quickly headed to the White House gym, heedless of the agent who followed him at a discreet distance and radioed his movements to the Service's on-site central office.  

She didn't notice his light tap on the door and she didn't see him enter the office.  In fact, the first indicator she had of his presence was when he tripped and fell down the stairs.

The crash brought her to her feet, and for a second, she could only stare at him in shock, lying there on the floor of the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue – alternatively known as the Junior Counsel's office.

"Oh, my gosh, Sam.  Are you alright?"

Face flushed red, Sam quickly got to his feet and started to dust himself off.  "I'm good… well, all except the ego, but I'll manage."  The laugh escaped before she could stop it, and only grew when she saw his mock-glare in her direction.  

She smiled a little, looking him over in case he was injured and not saying anything.  Seeing nothing to alarm her, she made her mind focus on the business of the day, asking, "What did you need, Sam?"

"Um… nothing, really… well, not anything work-related."  His face was starting to change color again, and Ainsley couldn't help but think that he was cute when he was flustered.  

"Sam…"

"Actually, I… just wanted to see if you were free… for dinner.  This… I… sometimes there are more important things than work, you know?  Family, friends… people that you hope might be more than friends.  There are no certainties in life and none of us really knows where we're going to be tomorrow…"

"Sam," her soft, Southern voice interrupted him mid-ramble.  "I'd be delighted to go to dinner with you."

"Really?" On anyone else, that shocked look might have been enough to turn her off; on Sam, it was cute.

"Really," she answered.  _I am so gone._

No one saw the blond walk around the corner.  It was a busy street, after all, and one man among many was not worthy of any particular level of interest.  His three-quarter length coat was a testament to the chill of a D.C. winter, and the fact that his hands were in his pockets raised no eyebrows.  When he bent down – as if to tie his shoe – the passers-by were either unaware or uncaring of the backpack that slipped from his shoulders, and from which he retrieved… something.  This was – after all – nothing out of the ordinary.  Those who saw the small flash of flame simply thought that he was lighting a cigarette.  

By the time anyone heard the crash of breaking glass and saw the street-level apartment burst into flames, the blond man was nowhere to be seen, and any description that might tie him to the scene quickly slipped from memory.

TBC…


End file.
